


Every time I feel alone, you fade away

by irene_yongie



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Angst, Asylum, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Blood and Torture, Everything Hurts, Gore, Heavy Angst, Lobotomy, M/M, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Polyamory, Violence, non-consensual act of surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:12:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24952840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irene_yongie/pseuds/irene_yongie
Summary: Yangyang wakes up chained to a bed.
Relationships: Liu Yang Yang/Wong Kun Hang | Hendery/Xiao De Jun | Xiao Jun
Comments: 12
Kudos: 63





	Every time I feel alone, you fade away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [erica_joshima](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erica_joshima/gifts).



> Here's a gift? for my creepy baby ririka. This is a scene from her universe RE: if you'd like to know more about it you can check her [account](https://twitter.com/satoi_tooru), the scene is pretty self-explanatory about the story but i HIGHLY recommend you to check her art! So yeah it's really gore, and also traumatizing for Yangyang so aware of the tags!! Like!! Please look at the tags before reading.  
> Good luck for the ride, it hurts.

Yangyang wakes up chained to a bed.

Panic rushes through his veins.

He tries to move, but cold circles of metal surround his wrists, ankles, waist, and neck, imprisoning him. The room is dark and the silence’s only broken by regular  _ beep  _ sounds. There are wires injected in his forearm and something is compressing his index finger. Confusion blurs his mind. His head is dizzy. His heartbeat is accelerating fast, too fast. 

Horrifyingly, memories come back to him. 

He remembers running, the fear tormenting him and his guts clenching at every step. He remembers praying Dejun could get Hendery somewhere safe. He remembers Kun’s sweaty hand in his, his kind eyes glowing with terror and urging him to hurry as they were reaching for the lab’s door. He remembers being shot in the leg, tripping on his foot like an idiot, the taste of dust, and letting go of Kun’s hand. He remembers Kun stopping and turning back to him, horror disfiguring him, him yelling to Yangyang to get up before raising his eyes to meet the ones of their chasers. He remembers hesitating, for a second, before begging Kun to leave him behind, saying it’s too late for him and he should save himself. He remembers meaning it but still hoping Kun would try to save him. He remembers Kun turning away and running.

He remembers footsteps behind getting louder and louder as he tried to crawl, feeling like he was pulled in the air before he felt strong hands grabbing his arms, and a loud thud and sharp pain before everything turned black.

Realization hits him harder than a truck. He has to get out of here  _ right now _ . He has no idea what they want to do to him, but he perfectly recalls Hendery’s hollowed eyes as he got out of the lab and how he screams every night in his sleep. Tears of fear spill on his cheeks abundantly, escaping Yangyang’s control as he frantically wiggles his limbs, trying to get out, desperately, in vain.

A door opens.

The lights turn on, blinding.

A shiver runs through Yangyang’s spine.

He can’t see anything but the ceiling, the immaculate whiteness burning his eyes.

“This is crazy!” A man speaks, startling Yangyang. “We haven’t mapped the entirety of his brain! We could damage so many essential functions!”

“The subject tried to escape, that made him a dead subject,” a woman answers.

“But imagine how much money it’d take to replace him!”

“We don’t even know how many subjects we’ll be able to retrieve yet.” A third voice, feminine, resonates against the cold white walls.

“Enough! You don’t have a say in this. We’re operating.”

Yangyang struggles again, scratching his skin against the sharp metal. He can barely move anyway, especially considering his wounded leg that had been bandaged while he was unconscious.

Yangyang distinguishes five different people walking toward him. He hears that they’re now encircling him, but he can’t see them. He knows who they are, though. Not their names or stories, but they’ve conducted several experiments on him and the others. He knows that the anesthetist is allergic to bananas, for example, having learned anecdotes about the scientists through their chatter, or that the chief surgeon is terrified of ghosts — which Yangyang’s always found ironic.

“Get him up, we’re going to need a better view,” the chief surgeon orders. She’s always been a bitch, but a bitch Yangyang has learned to fear.

Someone walks to his side and orients the bed — which is not really a bed but more of a metallic plank — in an angle almost perpendicular to the ground. Here, his eyes widen as his suspicions turn correct. He knows the five of them, the neurologist, the anesthetist, the psychomotor psychologist, the neuropsychiatrist, and the chief surgeon. 

“What are you going to do to me?” His voice raspy, his words come out as grunts, yet his tremors are audible.

None of them answer him, engrossed in the preparation of the operation.

_ Don’t hurt me, _ he wants to beg, but he knows they won’t listen. They’ve never listened to them.

He hopes the others are okay.

Dejun, Hendery, Yukhei, Ten, Sicheng… Kun.

He prays that they were all able to leave safely, even if he doubts it. The outside must be so beautiful. The sun must shine so prettily on Dejun’s skin. The wings fly so beautifully around Hendery.

Yangyang remembers their conversations, late at night in their cell, using a dilapidated book for children to remember how the outside was. They’ve been captured young and only knew the high towers of their respective cities. They’d never seen the seas and oceans, the entire deserts, forests, or gigantic mountains. Only dreaming about it, they’d told each other stories about how great it would feel to see the world together. They gushed about how nice it must be to climb on top of a mountain and admire the landscapes, and the freedom of jumping into a lake by a waterfall. Their most precious dream was to stay under the rain together, the seven of them. Here, the only water they had was a bowl every three days, to drink or to use to wash themselves — their choice.

He hopes they are okay, even if they’ve left him.

Dejun must run,Yangyang just wishes he’d run with him.

The psychologist turns to him, a shaver in hand. 

Yangyang doesn’t want to understand what it means. He doesn’t want to admit to himself that he knows what they’re going to do to him. 

“No!” He yells as the woman approaches and turns on the shaver. He moves around his head but two hands placate it to the metallic plank.

They shave his head as he screams.

“You can’t do that! Please! Please!”

He knows it’s pointless, but how can he let himself get butchered peacefully?

Then, it’s the turn of the anesthetist to face him, a needle in hand.

“No,” Yangyang lets out in a hush.

“Don’t move. I promise you, you don’t want to feel anything.”

Yet immobilized, Yangyang starts to shake violently.

“Please, don’t.” The anesthetist doesn’t answer, the needle breaks Yangyang’s skin, ruthless. “Don’t.”

Yangyang expects to lose consciousness soon, like he always does after the injection, but even if the haziness of the anesthetic starts to blur his mind, he stays awake.

“Subject 10110, can you hear us?” The chief surgeon asks after a few minutes, or hours, or seconds. Yangyang doesn’t really know. 

“Yes,” he answers automatically, his voice no higher than a whisper.

A finger slips through his closed hand.

“Can you squeeze your left hand?”

He obeys, praying without really hoping that it’ll make them happy and they’ll leave.

“And can you untighten your grip?”

It’s a bit more difficult, but Yangyang lets go of the finger. He lets go of everything.

He hopes the others are okay, but he wishes more they would come back to save him. Actually, he desperately holds on to the image of the door slamming to reveal Dejun and Kun. Kun — or his demon — can save them, Dejun can help.

Yangyang remembers their promise, ‘We’ll dance together in the water’. He hopes Dejun didn’t lie.

“What’s your name?”

“Liu Yangyang.”

“When were you born?”

“November tenth, 2000”

“Who were your cellmates?”

A lump falls in his throat. It’s not too hard to understand they’re testing his memory and its different stages, but it doesn’t hurt any less to think about it. The tears that had calmed down with the anesthetic brim his eyes once again. He articulates with difficulty.

“Xiao Dejun and Hendery.”

“Are we ready yet?” The neuropsychiatrist asks, an arched metallic instrument in the hand. Even if they’re psychologists, they’re also doctors. But do they have a diploma or were they trained on the job by the chief surgeon? That’s another matter.

“We have to hurry,” the chief surgeon says. Yangyang can’t see her. She terrifies him, she’s always had.

The psychologist nods sternly while the neuropsychiatrist comes closer to Yangyang’s head.

He knows what’s going to happen.

He’s terrified by it.

But his body numb and his limbs pinned down to a plank, he only has his mind to scream and his gut to twist horribly.

_ Run away! Run away! Run away! _

And he  _ can’t. _ Imprisoned, he can only watch the scientists talk about his operation. He can only wait for them to wreck his body. He can only pray that it’s going to be fast. He doesn’t even want to think about the consequences. If Dejun and Kun don’t come to save him, he hopes he can die on the operation plank.

Slowly, with all the energy he has left, he moves his head.

It’s ridiculous, it’s not enough.

The chief surgeon has the delicacy not to laugh, he knows she could have.

He feels that his head is being moved around, he tries to resist, but he can’t. He’s locked up, from everywhere.

The chief surgeon approaches with a scalpel. 

It’s wrong. It’s wrong because he’s not supposed to feel the coldness of the metal, nor even the incision. But it stings like hell. Blood flows down his forehead and wets his eyes. They’re not being careful. They’re in a hurry. It makes Yangyang’s chances to die more likely. He doesn’t know how he feels about it.

The five scientists have noticed his wince of pain. As one wipes the blood off his face, he hears them talking from a distance.

“It seems like the subject can feel pain.”

“There wasn’t enough anesthetic.”

“No shit.”

“You should inject more,” the voice of the neuropsychiatrist almost sounds worried.

“I can maybe pull up the dose of—”

“ _ No _ .” The chief surgeon cuts off severely. “It’s too late.”

“But he might faint because of the pain and—”

“Do I look like I care?” The atmosphere is glacial, Yangyang can tell, even in a daze. “He’s not human, and if you’re not strong enough to handle some pig screaming, get out my operation room,  _ right now. _ ”

There’s a moment of cold dead silence, but nothing moves. The chief surgeon rolls her eyes and gets back to work. Another incision. Yangyang curls his fists. And another one. And the last one. He’s started crying silently. The chief surgeon peels the skin off his skull as the four other scientists are simply watching. Yangyang feels every of his nerve endings  _ burning _ , almost hearing the skin getting off with suction noises. Why are the fuckers’ eyes so wide? Those hypocritical asses have witnessed worse.

Yes, it’s well and truly a piece of his skin that the chief surgeon is laying on the ice.

Yangyang wants to throw up.

_ It can’t get any worse _ , he thinks with terror. He knows it will yet.

When he sees the chief surgeon turning around to take something that looks like it was made to pierce bones, he feels like he’s crumbling inside. It’s like he’s been pushed over the edge of the building and he can’t scream. It’s like he’s drowning but he can’t take the rope next to him. He can’t move.

He lifts his eyes, meeting the gaze of the neuropsychiatrist. Maybe he’s high on anesthetic, but he thinks he catches a sparkle of compassion.

“Don’t break my head,” he whispers, begging, his eyes brimming with tears.

Once again, he’s ignored. The hand he’d stretched out wasn’t caught. Yet again, he’s left alone as he sinks in the abyss, gripped by the greedy hands of scientists — gripped by madness.  _ Madness. _

The boy is young. The boys are always young.

Subject 10110 could have been pretty, if not for the huge bags under its eyes, its drawn and greenish skin, its alarmingly emaciated figure, and now the gap of hair right above its forehead. They’d shaved a tuft of hair hastily. They’re no hairdressers, it looks ugly. The subjects are ugly anyway, that’s what the chief surgeon Amanda Warren had taught him when he arrived here a few months ago, his freshly obtained diploma in his bag. As he blocked subject 10110’s head with the metallic headrest, he tried to believe his boss.

It’s hard though, when the subject 10110 reminds him of his own nephew. This one is slightly younger and much healthier, but they share the same lively hazelnut eyes. Except his nephew rarely cries, and when he does, it’s for something light and petty, not because he’s chained to an operation plank and about to get his skull broken to get his brain fiddled with.

Subject 10110 is trembling lightly. It’s cried so much its eyes are swollen and its cheeks are furrowed with dried tears, mixed with dust and blood. They’re making a mess of him. No, they’re worsening their mess and hope that in the pile of flesh, bones, and blood, a flower will bloom. He shouldn’t be worried for him, but how can he use his diploma with years and years of absorbing facts and theories about the  _ human  _ mind, brain, and body on the subject if it’s not at least slightly human? He wasn’t supposed to do that, never that. Not to a human being.

The subject wasn’t supposed to feel the pain, but the chief surgeon doesn’t care, never cares, and gets ready to smash its skull open. Posing the sternal saw on the exposed white bone — he wants to vomit — she’s ruthless.

The subject’s eyes dart to meet his.

“Don’t break my head.”

For a short moment, so short it’s not even an instant, he meets the desperate call inside the subject’s eyes before it turns into horror.

**_CRACK!_ **

In a cruel irony, it’s at this moment the chief surgeon shatters the skull. Methodically, she’s sawing in his bone in a perfect square to grant her access to his brain. She hides a half of the subject’s face but it shows nonetheless the sheer gruesomeness, panic, and desolation of the scene.

The _beep-beep_ of the electrocardiogram is erratic. The subject’s eyes are horribly bulging, like it realizes the full atrocity of what is happening. It doesn’t move. The shaking has stopped. Now, its chest is frantically raised by its short breaths. Petrified. Panting. High-pitched gurglings of pain are blocked in its throat.

The noise is atrocious.

The smell is atrocious.

The sight is atrocious.

A shrill yelp escapes the subject’s mouth and defeans the psychologist. He feels bad for having this image in the head when he’s watching a subject literally getting his skull shattered while feeling every single sensation, but it’s like his own heart crumbles. He wants to stop the operation. It’s not good. It’s not humane.

Finally, the chief surgeon is done. She pulls out the cut-out section of the skull. For a second, the psychologist feels relief, for a second, before his eyes bear the sight of a young man, chained to a plank, awake, a hole gaping on his head, exposing pink intertwined tender flesh covered with a slim protective pellicule seeping with red. He gags.

A young man.

A young man who feels relief too, apparently, as he breathes out heavily and one single tear rolls on his cheek. He’s trembling lightly, but he looks like he gave up, almost, his stare fixed at the ground, no more looking for help.

Yet, like a litany, like he’s chanting a protective spell, he mumbles things the psychologist can’t quite grasp. The chief surgeon comes back and takes his chin to lift his head. He looks at the long and thin instruments she’s holding, a pick and pliers, before closing his eyes. There’s many more next to her and she’ll use every one of them. His mumbles get louder, get clearer.

“Drew, Jenner, I’m going to need you right now.”

Horror-struck, the psychologist can’t move. He recognized what the subject is repeating to himself.  _ Dejun _ .  _ Hendery _ .

_ ‘Dejun. Hendery. Dejun. Hendery.’ _

Subject 1000 and 101100’s names, 10110’s cellmates. It’s only now he understands: his friends.

With their names, others too.

_ ‘Kun. Yukhei. Sicheng. Ten.’ _

The ones who’d tried to escape. The ones who left 10110 behind. Is he hoping they’re going to save him? Or does he cling to the memories they share to remain sane? There’s no way to know now, and there won’t be any, ever.

The neuropsychiatrist comes toward the chief surgeon before she snaps again. He gulps down his guilt and decides to do his fucking job and guide her through subject 10110’s brain. Because that’s what he is, a subject. No, what  _ it  _ is, has always been, and will always be. He needs to remember that it’s not a human, but a creature disguised to manipulate them. He’s doing humanity a favor. And even, if it  _ were  _ human, the end justifies the means. There is a purpose, he shouldn’t forget that.

They’re doing things to him. Even if disgust shakes Yangyang from the inside and pierces his guts, he wants to thank evolution or whatever divinity for making the brain insensitive. The chief surgeon is skilled enough that even in a hurry the different instruments don’t brush against his skull or his skin. The neuropsychiatrist is asking him some questions that Yangyang whispers soulless answers to. He doesn’t pay attention to the words he speaks to give the chief surgeon an idea of what she’s doing in his brain.

It’s good that he doesn’t feel anything anymore, but it sure isn’t the end, and in the newfound calm he feels more petrified than before. In the absence of sensation, the only thing he can do is  _ think _ . Urgently wondering what they’re going to do, browsing his mind for the little knowledge he has about the operations. It could be anything, messing up with his aggression, emotions, motor and language skills. Time after time, he saw other subjects disfigured in their very essence coming back tottering.

The worst ones were Hendery and Ten.

Hendery was their sun, the ray of hope in the dark night, and the silly joke lighting up the mood. He was their happiness, sharing the cell with Yangyang and Dejun, he brought the joy they needed to stay humane and alive, if not sane.

One time, they took him away.

For three weeks, Yangyang and Dejun, snuggled together, couldn barely catch any sleep, staying awake and losing their mind over the thought of him never returning. In a way, they weren’t really wrong.

Hendery didn’t ever come back, not truly.

Shaved head, hollowed eyes, and nightmares. They had taken away his emotions. Where he was lively, he’d become dull and apathetic. Not sad, per say, but heartbroken. They’d done something to him, they’d erased his emotions. They weren’t as strong as they were, not as bright, not as colorful, or not as beautiful. Yet, Yangyang remembers his love. Hendery’s love for them never disappeared, it had wavered and faltered, but it had stayed. When he came back, the first thing he did wasn’t smiling — even sadly — like Dejun and Yangyang had expected, but taking them into his bony arms. They cried that night, Hendery didn’t. He’d wipe away their tears, looking at them with hollowed eyes.

The only emotion he seemed to be able to feel was fear. A pure sheer panic that escaped him in raw and violent waves of pain as yells scratched his throat in his sleep, only calming down as he woke up and looked at Dejun and Yangyang. If Hendery couldn’t have emotions, he could still perceive lingering feelings, vaguely, weakly, but he could use a love that had bloomed during years of torture and remember its scent.

Yangyang remembers his love.

Ten’s case was different. First, he wasn’t Yangyang’s cellmate, and he didn’t know a lot about him. What he did know was that Ten, even though he appeared as cold and acerbic, was very kind and caring. Always blindfolded, he still noticed every little detail about Yangyang and the others, and never failed to use them to show his love. Ten was predictable in the best way possible, unwavering, calm and wise, also over-controlling and stressed — but they’d gladly put up with his haughty comments. And like Hendery, they took him and wrecked him only to give someone incomplete and familiarly different back to them. After the surgery, he’d developed impressive and unpredictable mood swings. He’d become sour and unforgiving. His sudden outbursts of rage were as surprising as they were terrifying. But Yangyang remembers his sincere apologies and the deep breaths he tried to take as his cheeks reddened and his jaw visibly clenched — if it was pointless and he ended up being a mess anyway, the others still appreciated his efforts.

Yangyang remembers his resolution.

So Yangyang knows he’s not going to survive the surgery. He doesn’t really feel himself, confused in the blur between the surgery happening and the memories he’s desperately holding to. He’d lost himself the second the anesthetic went into his bloodstream. It’s too late now; Kun can try to save him, but he’s already dead.  _ And he’s not even trying,  _ the thought digs a sharp hole in his heart.  _ He abandoned me. _ If he was physically able to, he’d be shaken by sobs.

At some point, shortly after a loud  _ click _ , the rhythm of questions intensifies and gets more and more hazardous.

“Subject 10110, what’s your last memory before waking up here?”

Bitterness fills his mouth. “Easy. We were escaping.”

“Can you develop more?”

Talking is hard, like his saliva turned into cotton and cheeks — into lead. He can hardly mutter, “We were running. I got shot in the leg. I fell. I told him to run away, and he did.”

There’s a silence Yangyang can’t interpret, his eyelids are too heavy to be opened. 

A sharp pain prickles his lower spine. He moans before it vanishes in an instant.

“Can you move your feet?”

Yangyang doesn’t try to question and wiggles his toes, with difficulty, but he does it.

“Yeah.”

“What happened three weeks ago?”

“It was my birthday.”

“How well do you remember it?”

“Perfectly.”

It’s true. His birthday was memorable. Somehow, Kun, Ten, Yukhei and Sicheng had all sneaked out of their cell to join Yangyang with Hendery and Dejun. Convinced by Jungwoo — that motherfucker — and for the sake of Ten’s beautiful eyes, someone in the kitchen had baked a small chocolate cake for them. It wasn’t larger than a big cupcake and had lumps, but the taste made up for it. The six others only took a crumb for each — Yangyang had insisted that they taste but they didn’t accept more. Yanyang devoured the rest until he was licking his fingers. He regretted eating so fast, but the chocolate made him lose control, reminding him painfully about how easy his life used to be. Then, the seven of them started chatting and reviewing their escape plan. Jungwoo was helping them, he was one the scientists’ favorite and charmed them into giving him precious information. Falling in love with Yukhei somehow in this decrepit environment, he’d decided to help them escape with him. Yangyang wants to laugh. No, actually, he wants to strangle Jungwoo after he’d fed him with the feathers of his wings.

The angel had betrayed them. Yangyang doesn’t know when it started to fuck up and how largely, but judging by the shrilling siren, the gunshots, the yells and loud thuds, they’d caught all of them. He tastes bitterness on his tongue, so different from the chocolate. Project 127 were the ones chasing them. Scientist’s proteges. Yangyang still thought they could be on their side. Yukhei must be so devastated. Well, if he’s not dead. Yangyang swallows hard, deciding that he’s fucked anyway and he better hold onto memories if he wants to ease his pain.

So, his birthday. They all sang Yangyang ‘Happy Birthday’ as he tasted the chocolate lingering. He had earned himself a shit ton of smooches and hugs, Yukhei had held him in his arms for a damn long time, and Sicheng, even staying away in a corner, tried to pat his shoulder. Yangyang didn’t even feel his hand, but gratefulness overwhelmed him. It was probably his most treasured memory, all of them in one place, their bonds as obvious as the love that connected all of them. Ten teased Yangyang relentlessly, Kun chided him and wiped away a stain on Yangyang’s chin. Dejun never left his side, and Hendery even laughed at some jokes. Yangyang wanted this moment to never end. But eventually, it did, and his sadness was soon enough comforted as both Dejun and Hendery took him in their embrace. Stuck between the two in a way-too-little bed, he snuggled them closer to him. His cheeks hurt from smiling so much, and warmness spread around them, like it was wrapping them in a fuzzy blanket. He’d whispered half-asleep that he loved them, and they said it too. Hendery was fondling the back of his head and Dejun was rubbing his thumb on his hand, their other hands linked on Yangyang’s chest.

Yangyang remembers the happiness and his hope.

Even if they’d been caught, and all of them were punished for it the next day. Yangyang ignores those memories, he has all the blood and fear he needs right here, right now.

There’s a click. Yangyang tenses up. His breath hitches. There’s something deeply wrong, but he can’t place his finger on it.

“Where were you born?”

_ Why are they asking again? _

“November tenth, 2000.”

“What's your last memory before waking up here?”

“Escaping.”

“Do you still remember it well?”

Why wouldn't he? He’d just told them about it!

“Yes.”

There’s a silence and another click. Yangyang feels dizzy, like something is slipping away from him.

“What happened three weeks ago?”

_ What happened three weeks ago? _

Panic rises up in his chest. He suddenly opens his eyes and frantically darts them to the neuropsychiatrist, to the psychologist, the anesthetist, and lifts them painfully trying to see the chief surgeon’s face. Yangyang knows he just told them about it. He recalls the neutopsychiastrist’s question, but what was his answer? What was his answer?!

His birthday.

He hears the electrocardiogram going wild as he remembers what he just thought, falling asleep with Dejun and Hendery, the others visiting him, the taste of chocolate, but the story doesn’t find its reflection in his mind. Why?! Did he just invent it?! No. He knows they were cellmates. He remembers they were cellmates. It must be true.

“What happened three weeks ago?” The neuropsychiatrist repeats.

His throat hurts. His heart painfully wreaks havoc in his chest. It’s hard to think, even harder to speak, and destructive to confess this thought.

“I don’t know.”

He cries, shaken by sobs.

The warmth. He remembers the warmth. He clings desperately to it. Arms around him. Hearts beating in sync. A kiss on the temple.

Another click.

It slips away. Yangyang cries harder.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!”

Pain compresses his chest and heat overwhelms him as he finds himself panting.

The faces of Dejun and Hendery are blurry, all that he can summon is distant feelings. Warmth transforms into anger. Rage and pity. Hendery was weak, and it was Dejun and Yangyang’s job to protect him, and to protect each other. Dejun had failed him. He escaped without him, without looking back. Kun turned away. Kun left him. He gave him to the scientists without fearing what they’d do to him. Hendery must be protected, and they all failed him. Yangyang, but also Kun and Dejun. They were supposed to be free together. Yangyang doesn’t understand what happened and why their plan didn’t work, only that he has no clue where Hendery is. Dejun and Kun must pay for that.

He isn’t supposed to feel all of that.

He loves them, right? Hendery  _ and _ Dejun.

He’s friends with Kun, right?

But was he ever? Did he ever feel something other than anger towards Dejun and Kun?

How can he know? All he remembers is being shot and Kun leaving him behind, and Dejun leaving with Hendery, barely holding his hand, like he was about to let go.

They betrayed him.

How can he have ever loved them, when all he feels is a raging fire begging Yangyang to burn them?

Why can’t he feel the warmth anymore? Why did it turn scorching and blinding?

Desperately, he reaches deeper into his memory. When he first met Dejun and Hendery before the rest of them.The first experiments together. The first night when they dared to sleep in the same bed, drying their tears with comfort. Their first kiss, so absurd and bizarre in a cell when they haven't properly showered in months and months, but so sweet. How Kun helped him, listening to him ranting, screaming, and crying and gave Yangyang’s most precious advice: to find his safe place. 

_ Click. Click. Click. _

All of these memories fade as Yangyang cries harder and harder, tears boiling with anger, and the wrath takes him over, like he can’t feel any other emotions.

He tries to remember how it felt to be held by Dejun, but he can't. He can’t, and the only thing he wants to do is crush his skull with his bare hands, to grasp his throat and choke him. Mostly, he wants to burn Kun’s safe place down . He wants to kill him so slowly, so painfully that Kun’ll feel what Yangang is feeling right now, as his brain is wide open for the surgeon to play with when his body is locked up, unable to defend himself. He wants Kun’s demon to swallow him all as he fights, claws tearing Kun’s skin while Yangyang watches. Kun would beg for his help but Yangyang would only laugh as the demon tore off Kun’s throat.

His eyes twitch in every direction as he painfully wants to collect his memories, to trace their blurred lines back, to reconstruct the puzzle before he misses the pieces. Every time he blinks, it gets more difficult. He forces himself to stay awake, not close his eyes even for a second. 

Yangyang yells. He yells, hoping he will let go of the fire. His throat hurts. The anger doesn’t vanish. If only, screaming makes Yangyang even angrier. His body trembles as the scientists hold his chest down and immobilize his head even more than it already is.

_ Click. Click. Click. _

Yangyang calms down as his eyes meet the silent tears of the neuropsychiatrist.

“Subject 10110, how did you meet the other WayV subjects?”

“I don’t know.”

“What was your first impression of them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who were you cellmates?”

“I don’t know.”

Yangyang thinks that earlier, he would be sobbing at the thought of not knowing anymore. Now, he doesn’t care. Why would he care about strangers? Something hurts him though. It stings his heart. He can’t recognize what, though — he forgot.

“What are your feelings about subject 10110?”

“Who?”

“Hendery.”

“I don’t care.”

“Ten?”

“I don’t care.”

“Wong Yukhei?”

“I don’t care.”

“Dong Sicheng?”

“I don’t care.”

“Xiao Dejun?”

There’s a moment of silence. Yangyang had calmed down, but just from hearing this name, the flames fire up again. He’s hurt, but something prevents him from feeling any kind of melancholy, like something was locked up inside him where he can’t access it.

“I feel angry.” Venom spills from his tongue. “I want to hurt him.”

“And Qian Kun?”

Yangyang chuckles. “I want to kill him.”

“Why?”

“I remember he betrayed me. I got shot because of him.”

“What else can you tell us about this group? About WayV?

“Nothing.”

Yangyang doesn’t remember anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hi you're still alive! Congrats! I'm sorry about what you read but I'm very happy and hope you enjoyed it, somehow.
> 
> you can yell at me on twitter [here](https://twitter.com/kitty_track) and on curiouscat [there](https://curiouscat.me/kitty_track)!


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